He Knew What He Wanted
by xxshebeexx
Summary: He didn’t know how long the kiss lasted, didn’t know how long kisses were supposed to last but he knew what he wanted ... Ash/Misty, sequel to "She Kissed Him Instead" - what happens after that first kiss? Rated for sexual implications.


Sequel to "She Kissed Him Instead". Never written a sequel before, and never expected to write one so quickly either. This instalment mainly stems from pkshpr's observation in a comment that I always seem to finish stories just as they kiss ... so here's a glimpse into what happened after Misty decided to kiss Ash to comfort him.

Enjoy, and as always, reviews make me smile :)

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He Knew What He Wanted

She was kissing him.

With rain sheeting across the abandoned battleground, they knelt in the mud. Water dripped through his hair and down his collar, the coldness of the air chilled his hands and his arms. He couldn't really see and any coherent thoughts had vanished as his imminent defeat had become clear, mere minutes ago as the battle ended. Numbness had managed to engulf his entire body until, paradoxically, it almost ached.

She'd come out of nowhere, the last one in the whole stadium to stay. The tiny little part inside him that was still managing to think questioned her presence, willed her to stay and willed her to leave. He'd barely noticed her hands on his cheeks, barely registered her cerulean eyes examining his face.

But when she leaned in and kissed him … yes, he noticed that.

Oh, her lips were warm. The numbness seemed to seep out from under those lips and was replaced by something else – an unfamiliar yet not unwelcome soft heat that spread out to touch every part of his chest. He'd had his fair of electrical zaps and mishaps in his time, but nothing, nothing compared to the tingling sensation that filled him now.

He didn't know how long the kiss lasted, didn't know how long kisses were supposed to last but he knew that the moment she pulled back and the warmth her lips had dissipated into the gloomy air, that it shouldn't be over yet. He forced his numb muscles into action and lurched forward, bringing both hands up out of the mud to rest on her shivering bare arms. Through the murk clouding his head, he thought he saw uncertainty in her eyes, a slight frown skitter across her forehead and worry cloud her features.

He wanted to make her see that it was okay. So what if he couldn't remember how to think right now. Yes, he'd lost the most important battle he'd ever fought, rendered years of hard work and toil useless. There may have been a hole somewhere inside him that had devoured his dreams, his hopes, his light. But it was okay. Because she was there, it was okay.

Clumsily, he closed the distance between them, awkwardly banging their faces together. Coordination had never been his strong point. But he must have been doing something right, considering that she was parting her lips – oh, she was parting her lips.

Is that what tongues felt like? Warm and wet and soft? She seemed to know what she was doing (how did she know what she was doing?) so he just leaned in a little more and let her curl her tongue around his in a way that amplified the earlier sensation tenfold until he was glad that he was kneeling because he was sure his legs would have buckled beneath him by this stage. The rain stopped mattering; he wasn't cold anymore.

He didn't even realise that he'd been leaning too far forward until she seemed to squeak a little and broke the kiss to fall back onto the ground, hair splayed wetly into the sodden grass. Despite the dreary light, he thought she looked … radiant. He hadn't really understood that word before; it was one Brock used to describe various women on many occasions, but he'd never really paid attention to it before. He crawled forward, his face not displaying any apology for knocking her over, until he was straddling her, knees at either side of her hips, his hands brushing her hair out of the way to be placed by her head.

She was gazing up at him, eyes wide. His chest was far from empty now, his body already forgetting the aching numbness that had rendered him motionless before. Heat and vigour had replaced the cold but he wanted more.

Leaning down, he kissed her again, closing his eyes. It didn't matter if they were open or not; he was feeling and stumbling his way blindly through this anyway. His mind had thawed and if he'd wanted to, he could have been thinking again. But that would have complicated everything; he didn't want to know what this was between them, he couldn't imagine trying to figure out where this would lead and he really didn't want to picture what exactly he was doing (or doing wrong). So he concentrated on the sensations instead.

Their tongues were so passionate now, rubbing and stroking and feeling, almost as if by their own accord. Her hands had somehow managed to snake around his neck to bring him closer so that that his body pressed tightly to hers. He could feel every contour of her delicate form beneath his. If he'd allowed himself to think, his face would have been scarlet on the realisation that the soft curve of her breasts was nestled snugly into his chest, that every time they moved their heads, his body brushed even closer to hers. And he most certainly would never have moved his hands from the ground to run along her body until his left reached those breasts and the right traced lightly along her hip.

She groaned into the kiss as his hand cupped her breast through the sodden fabric of her t-shirt, even arcing her back to push herself upwards into his palm. He kneaded and squeezed until she tore her lips from his to throw her head backwards. Bowing his head, he nestled his hair into her throat, listening to her gasps for air.

"A … A-Ash … what are we doing?"

Her voice was breathless, the words coming out in a tangled rush.

He paused for a moment, dangerous an action as that was. The little voice in his head, revived from the murk and despair that had muffled it earlier, was telling him not to stop. If he stopped, he'd be mortified by his own actions, his boldness and forwardness. His best friend, lying in his arms, breathless, chest heaving and flushed pink, was staring up at him, bewildered … yet excited?

Time for honesty. Forget embarrassment, forget rationality. Overrated.

"I … don't know."

He'd been on the brink of anguish and she'd brought him back. This had brought him back. He might not have known what he was doing but he knew now what he wanted.

She hadn't had the words earlier and now he didn't have the words either. But he could show her what he wanted to say, with his hands and with his mouth and with his body.

So he leaned down again, pressing their lips together, sliding one hand down to the button of her shorts.

And felt loss turn to bittersweet victory as she wrapped her arms around him and let him in.


End file.
